by J. Thorn
Freeman quickly turned his attention back to the words on the page, searching for vapid inspiration. He felt sorry for Dipes, but his best bet was to stay on the sidelines for now. Maybe Deke had enemies among the kids, but the odds were just as good that Deke ruled the roost with no opposition. And survivors didn’t survive by turning into Defenders of the Weak.
A tall guy in an olive army jacket, who had enough of a hint of facial hair to be fifteen, followed Deke like a second lieutenant. Dipes reached the corner and cowered as the two older boys jabbed at him and sneered. “Dipey wipes, dipey wipes,” said Deke, his taunts somehow made even more obscene by his singsong chanting.
A couple of the other boys gathered behind Deke, making noises in imitation of passing gas. Three kids sat quietly on their bunks. From their expressions of relief, Freeman figured they were glad that Dipes was the victim this time instead of themselves. Then Freeman made the mistake of meeting Dipes’s eyes.
Help me, those small dark eyes implored.
Deke was unbuttoning his trousers and crouching as if he were going to moon Dipes. The young boy’s lips trembled as he gazed past his tormentors at Freeman. The room smelled of sweat and a caged-animal tension. Freeman gripped the book in his lap so tightly that the pages wrinkled. He would be a smart soldier and keep his head low. Play all sides against each other while sizing up the situation. Like Eastwood in “The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.”
It wasn’t fair that Dipes was small and weak. But whoever said life was supposed to be fair? If life was fair, places like this wouldn’t exist. If life was fair, Freeman would have had a different father and Mom would still be alive. If life was fair, Freeman would feel all the way alive instead of maybe half.
“Psst. Hey, new kid,” whispered the guy from two bunks over. He was one of the three who wasn’t participating in the taunting. The boy’s eyes were the strangest color of green that Freeman had ever seen, like sick moss.
Most of the other boys had crowded around Deke, so Freeman couldn’t see what sort of new insult Deke had dreamed up. From the sound of the laughter, it must have been a good one. Freeman decided he could risk replying without attracting attention.
“What?” he said to the boy out of the corner of his mouth, Eastwood-style, as if he were annoyed at being distracted from his book.
“You going to help him?”
The other two kids watched from their bunks, awaiting Freeman’s response. Freeman closed the book. “Are you?”
At the end of the dorm, Dipes started crying, and Deke imitated the boy’s sobs. The fuzz-faced teen in the army jacket joined in as well. A few others added their wet grunts to the chorus.
The boy who had spoken to Freeman lay back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling.
To hell with it.
Freeman stood and dropped the heavy book to the floor. It fell flat against the tiles, the noise like a gunshot. The crowd around Dipes fell silent, waiting for Deke’s reaction.
Oh, crap.
Freeman could feel the eyes on him, sizing him up. Freeman had been on the other side many times, checking out a recent arrival, wondering how the new kid’s presence would affect the group dynamics. He’d already blown his chance to blend into the background. The next best thing was to channel old Clint, circa the Sergio Leone spaghetti fests, and grow a rawhide exterior.
“Who’s this dickweed?” Deke asked the room. Freeman wondered if Deke knew what the phrase “rhetorical question” meant.
Dipes, forgotten now, wore a grateful expression as he slunk to his cot. Freeman yawned, then slowly bent over and picked the book off the floor. “Sorry. Dropped my book.”
Deke crossed the room in a hurry, the teen in the army jacket clinging to him like a shadow. The crowd that had gathered around Dipes was now behind Deke, encircling Freeman’s bunk.
Freeman held the book out so that Deke could see it. Deke snatched it away, his brow furrowed and his nose twitching as he tried to read the title. Finally he gave up and tossed it down, then kicked it and sent it skating across the floor like a rectangular hockey puck.
“Sucky book,” Deke said.
“I agree,” Freeman said. “A literal travesty.”
They stared at each other, silence replacing the taunts that had filled the room a minute earlier.
“Where you from?” Deke said.
“Durham.”
“Juvie court sent you?”
Being a juvenile court referral carried a little extra cache among junior thugs, but Freeman had taken a different road into the system. Not that he minded lying to Deke, he just didn’t want to be recruited into Deke’s army. Unless it was necessary for survival.
“Nope, never been caught,” Freeman said, as coolly as he could, though the perspiration gathered under his armpits and his heart pounded like a monkey’s drum.
Somebody kicked the book back to Deke, who picked it up. “What’s your name?”
“Theodore Roosevelt.”
The teen in the army jacket snickered. Deke’s expression didn’t change. “What kind of sissy name is that?”
“It’s short for Teddy,” said Army Jacket.
“Teddy bear,” Deke said, his plump lips parting in a smile. “A sissy name for a sissy boy who reads sissy books.”
“No, doofus, that was a president,” said one of the crowd.
Deke rubbed his crewcut, doubtful. “So, Teddy, you mighta noticed, this little hellhole ain’t Durham.”
“You can say that again,” Freeman said.
“This little hellhole ain’t Durham,” said Army Jacket. A few of the boys laughed. Deke elbowed Army Jacket in the ribs, punishment for hogging his spotlight. Silence fell over the room.
Deke held up the book. “How come you’re reading this stupid book and you ain’t even been to classes yet?”
“Stole it. From Bondurant’s office.”
“Bull.”
Freeman shrugged, as if he could care less whether Deke believed him or not. He hoped his indifference would be taken for toughness and not arrogance. Deke was heavy-set and outweighed Freeman by forty pounds. Freeman might have the edge in speed, but he didn’t want a battle on his first day.
“Why don’t you read some of it?” Freeman said. “See if it’s Bondurant’s kind of stuff.”
Deke opened the book, his brow wriggling as he struggled with the words. Freeman sneaked a glance at the boy with the strange green eyes. The boy flashed him a secretive wink. Dipes sat on a bunk in the front of the room, near the door, watching like the others.
Army Jacket shoved Deke’s arm, making the boy drop the book.
“What’d you do that for, butterbrains?” Deke said, though Freeman noted a tone of relief in the bully’s voice.
“You read that stuff, you’ll turn into a sissy, too,” Army Jacket said.
After a moment, Deke said, “Damn right,” and kicked the book across the floor again. It bounced off the leg of one of the bunks and slid near a redheaded boy’s foot.
The redhead gave the book a kick and it spun to Army Jacket. The teen stomped on it and then scooted it to another of the boys. The crowd spread out a little and the boys kicked the book back and forth, the particularly damaging blows drawing shouts of praise.
Freeman crossed his legs powwow-style and sat back on his bunk. He’d have to deal with Deke eventually, but at least he’d created a diversion for the moment. This way he’d have an opportunity to learn the ins and outs of Wendover before the inevitable face-off. It’s not like he had anything else to occupy his time, besides fending off inquisitive counselors, watching out for the Trust, and trying to keep his thoughts to himself.
And keeping other people’s thoughts away.
Bondurant’s words of inspiration were still taking a licking when the house parents finally showed up.
CHAPTER SIX
Starlene sat on one of the flat gray rocks that jutted from the ground beside the lake. The water, which smelled of moss and fish, distorted the reflection of
the tall trees. A leaf fell to its September death, sending low ripples out from where it floated along the silver-blue water. Starlene thought falling leaves were like angels, except she hadn’t worked out the part about how leaves rose up to heaven again after they had fallen. An angel shouldn’t just drown and sink and then lie rotting on the mud at the bottom.
The kids had a short break between classes and dinner. They were allowed out on the grounds in the company of their house supervisors, and soon would be scattered across the lawn, laughing, chasing each other, almost forgetting their world had walls. For the moment, though, she had the grounds to herself.
Starlene looked at the rear of Wendover Home, at the cold stones that were always in shadow. Behind those windows were tiny hearts, grown as cold and hard as the rocks that walled them in. Society’s children. The troubled, lost, and unwanted. Starlene hugged her knees to her chest. God didn’t send you anything that you couldn’t handle, though, and she must be here for a reason.
At least the staff seemed to care about the kids. She’d heard horror stories of the glory days when orphanages were little more than juvenile work farms. Though she’d only been at Wendover for three months, fresh off a Social Sciences degree at Appalachian State University, she got along well with the other counselors and house parents, especially Randy. Francis Bondurant was still a mystery, with something slippery behind his smile, but his reputation was solid with People Who Mattered. And Dr. Kracowski was likewise elusive, keeping odd hours and holding private sessions at times when the young clients were supposed to be in class. Without Bondurant and Kracowski, though, she couldn’t imagine such a difficult enterprise as Wendover ever lasting as long as it had. Better to offer prayers for them than to be suspicious.
Starlene took a granola bar from her pocket and peeled back the wrapper. She said a quick blessing and took a bite. She was about to take another, to convince herself that dry sweetened oats were tasty and not meant solely for horses, when she saw the figure on the far side of the lake. The figure stood at the water’s edge, two hundred feet away, almost obscured by the branches of a weeping willow.
Must be one of the landscaping crew.
She waved. The person didn’t respond. On closer examination, the person appeared to be draped in some sort of gray-colored gown. Odd clothing for yard work. And didn’t the landscapers get off work in the early afternoon?
Starlene squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water. The wind had picked up a little and the golden willow branches swished around the shadowy figure. She waved again, the first unease fluttering around the granola in her stomach. What did the handbook say about reporting unauthorized persons?
The back end of the property bordered a couple of farms whose fields gave way to the steep mountain slopes that were coated in autumn’s patchwork. A fence circled the Wendover lawn, but an adult could scale it without too much difficulty. An adventurous local fisherman might have crept in for a try at the lake’s bass, but casting a line would be awkward among those branches. She wasn’t naive enough to think that clients never sneaked out of the home, but who would want to sneak into a place as imposing as Wendover?
She stood and shaded her eyes. The figure moved closer to the water’s edge. She saw no fishing pole, and she was sure now it wasn’t a groundskeeper. It was an old man, the sun glancing off his pale bald head. The breeze that skated over the lake ruffled the man’s long gown. Starlene was reminded of a Biblical movie, John the Baptist doing God’s work in the water.
The man hesitated a moment, looking across the lake at the home. Starlene wished she had carried her walkie talkie with her, but she had learned to treasure her rare moments of privacy. She thought of calling out to him or shouting for assistance, but something about the man’s odd, hunched manner kept her silent. She crouched down on her rock.
Surely the man had seen her. But he showed no sign of being observed. Instead, he stepped forward into the lake. Another step, and he was in up to his knees. The water had to be forty degrees or so, but the man didn’t hesitate. When he was waist-deep, an alarm went off in Starlene’s head, the same alarm that warned her when a client was about to throw a fit or slip into a suicidal depression.
Starlene jumped from the rock and began hurrying around the lake. She broke into a full run just as the water reached the man’s shoulders.
“Hey,” she shouted. Her sprint brought her to a trail leading through a small copse of white pines. The sunlight dappled crazily off her face as she forced air into her lungs, drove her knees high, pounded her feet against the packed earth.
By the time she came out of the trees, the man had disappeared. She shouted again, her breath rasping as she reached the willow.
Not even a ripple marked the surface where the man had gone under. Starlene knelt by the water’s edge, peering into the murk. Surely some air would have escaped his lungs, bringing bubbles to the surface. The water along the bank should have been muddied by the man’s footsteps, but the bed of sediment hung intact like a greenish skin.
Starlene gave one more glance at the home. The shadowed walls offered no help. What would Jesus do, if Jesus ever had to save a drowning man? A more immediate question, what would she do?
She peeled off her blazer and tossed it high on the bank. Shucking her sandals, she took a deep breath and arced into the water, praying that she and the man didn’t meet headfirst.
The chill hit her like a fist, nearly causing her to gasp a mouthful of water. She opened her eyes to a disorienting universe of silver speckles.
Kicking her legs, she forced herself downward, fighting the natural buoyancy caused by the air in her lungs. Aided by the weight of her soaked clothing, she touched bottom and spun around.
Judging by the pressure against her ears, she was probably twelve feet deep. Here the water was darker and bluer, with loose particles of algae stirred by her dive drifting around her. Starlene pushed with her arms and turned in a circle.
No sign of the man.
She stroked with cupped hands, skimming the bottom. Above, the muted sunlight played against the surface, creating the illusion that the sky, too, was water.
Her lungs burned with held breath. No man, only mud. The cold water stung her eyes. Finally she made for the fresh air waiting above.
A shout greeted her as her head broke the surface. She shook hair from her face and treaded water, trying to orient herself. Another shout came, its direction disguised by the flat floor of lake. Then she saw them running toward the willow tree: Randy, followed by the huffing, gangly form of Bondurant.
“Are you okay?” Randy yelled.
Starlene nodded and took a gulp of air, then dove back under. This time she stayed shallow, peering through the gloomy water. The man was gone. If indeed he had ever been.
By the time she rose for her next breath, Randy had stripped his shirt and was at the water’s edge. He waded into the water, eyes wide from the shock of cold. Starlene waved him back. After waiting to see that she was making steadily for shore, he climbed up the bank, and retrieved his shirt and her blazer.
Bondurant had caught up with them by the time Starlene was standing, dripping and shivering, on solid ground. Randy gave her his shirt to use as a towel. Her nipples had hardened from the cold and he looked away.
“What’s going on?” Bondurant said, shifting his gaze from her chest to the spot in the water from which she had emerged.
“Some . . . man,” she said, fighting to fill her lungs. “He was here under the tree, then he just . . . walked in.”
“A man?” Bondurant said.
“Dressed in a gray gown. Like a hospital gown. I didn’t recognize him, so I don’t think he worked here. I yelled but he didn’t even look up, just went under and disappeared.”
“How long ago?” Randy asked.
“Couldn’t have been more than four or five minutes.”
“Even Houdini couldn’t hold his breath that long.” Randy went into the water up to his knees, then pu
t his hand over his eyes to shield the sun. “I don’t see any bubbles.”
“We should call the police or the rescue squad.”
Bondurant pushed his glasses up his nose. “A man, you say. Just disappeared into the water.”
“Yeah.”
“Miss Rogers, you expect us to believe a man would voluntarily walk into water that’s not far above freezing?”
“Why else would I jump in myself?”
“The sun off the water could have played tricks,” Randy said. “Happens a lot around here, seeing things. You know that from talking with the kids.”
“I know what I saw.”
She hunched under the warmth of the blazer as Randy waded back to shore. Bondurant raised one eyebrow at Randy, who shook his head.
“This is a very stressful job,” Bondurant said to her. “Someone with your limited experience must go through a period of adjustment. The practical applications taught in the classroom are far different from what we have to do inside those walls.” He paused, then added, “In the real world.”
Starlene gazed across the calm expanse of water. She expected a gray-clad corpse to bob to the surface at any moment.
“We’ll say nothing of this.” Bondurant turned and headed back toward Wendover.
“I’m not crazy,” she said.
Randy looked into the lake.
“I’m not crazy,” she repeated.
“Let’s go,” Randy said, taking his shirt from her. “You better change before you freeze to death.”
As they rounded the rocks on the far shore, Starlene looked back at the willow tree. Her legs and arms felt leaden, weighted by more than just her wet clothes. She hadn’t imagined it. Had she?
Randy put a possessive arm around her. She let herself lean against him, all tan muscles and chest hair.
“I’m not making this up,” she said.
“You heard Bondurant,” Randy said. “Don’t say anything.”
“Oh, God. You don’t believe me, either, do you?”
Randy didn’t reply.
And she’d thought he understood her, that they shared the beginnings of a growing trust. “Randy?”
